


Punish me, Father, for I have sinned...

by RavenAurelieChoiseau



Category: Stargent - Fandom, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: #kinktober, AU but some canon, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Anal Fisting, Bottom Chris Argent, Boys Kissing, Catholic Guilt, Chris speaks French, Chris usually tops but today he wants to bottom, Chris went to school in Paris when he was a teen, Church Sex, Coming Out, Deacon Hale mentioned, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt, Hand Jobs, Kinktober, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Priest Chris Argent, Priest Kink, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sex in the sacristy, Shameless Smut, Shotgunning, Smut, Top Stiles Stilinski, Tunic kink, Uncut Chris Argent, Wet Dream, Younger Priest Stiles Stilinski, holy oil used as lube, stiles speaks polish, uncut Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 14:38:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16243715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenAurelieChoiseau/pseuds/RavenAurelieChoiseau
Summary: Father Argent is parish priest at Holy Trinity in Beacon Hills. He struggles with guilt over being gay and over his feelings for his younger colleague, Father Stilinski.One day, overcome by his feelings, he asks Stiles to confess him.What happens, neither expect. Certain things shouldn't be done in holy places.





	Punish me, Father, for I have sinned...

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in mind for yesterday's #kinktober prompt, fisting. But it ended up also including shotgunning and a priest kink that I have been wanting to write for a while. I put a lot of myself into this, it's kind of an exorcism for me because I'm a recovering Catholic.  
> I used an adult Stiles because priest molestation isn't a favorite topic of mine. I wanted to at least keep it consensual and I have it on good authority that priests in seminary get in on rather frequently, and that is hot af.  
> So, my warning here is there is a lot of religious imagery and also prayers. If you're very religious the overtones, especially at the end, might offend you. So buyer beware. Having said that, I wouldn't call this depraved at all. I've read WAY worse. Enjoy.

“Never speak of this again.”  
Chris Argent’s glistening brow furrows. He whimpers into the darkness, one fist twisted into his stained bed sheets.  
“Mother please,” he begs, shying away from her busty figure. She casts a shadow over him, menacing and authoritarian.    
“Jamais plus!” _Never again.  
_  
Chris isn’t aware of it but the clock on the nightstand reads 3:12 a.m. The numbers are translucent red reflections on the Bible page he has left open.  
Its binding is a skeleton, the spine teetering recklessly off the edge of the small table. The tome’s placement is as precarious as Chris’ faith.  
It’s always the same page. It doesn’t matter which book it is, he doesn’t pay attention to the reading.  
  
Stiles’ breathing from beyond the paper-thin walls peaks his interest every night: his curse and his lullaby.  
  
There is a thin, quivering line between nightmares and dreams and minds dance upon it. From beneath closed lids Chris’ eyes dart rapidly. He rolls his head from side to side.   
His mother’s face returns, looking down upon her son once more, features tight with outrage and disappointment.  
The unexpected slap’s SMACK bounces off the walls like her hand does off his jaw.  
  
Chris turns the other cheek and swallows blood. His rosary falls to the floor.  
“Je suis désolé, Maman.” _I’m sorry, Mother.  
_  
This is what he was taught. _Honor thy Mother and Father._  
“So help me God, you will become a priest. You will pray away this abomination inside you, Christopher. I will not speak of it with your father because it would end him. I’ll pray for you. May God have mercy on your soul.”  
This is Chris’ coming out. He gets to relive it almost every night.  
  
The sliver of moonlight that dapples the floor leaves an unusual shape on the hardwood.  
Distress fades. Chris relaxes into the mattress below with a sigh as Stiles’ fingers curl around his rigid cock. He’s beside him in the twin bed, barely enough space for their yearning bodies.  
  
The summer night is warm and Christopher’s member is turgid and hot. Stiles tugs just enough, whispering the filthiest things into the man’s eager ear.  
The heat, it’s covered his body like a cloak but it’s also within him, rising…pushing… the constriction around his crown simply _perfect_.   
Stiles slinks down, lips sealed around the briny glans in promise. Eyes speckled with amber urge him on.   
  
Chris shoots up with a gasp shortly after, bedclothes clinging to him and his underwear soaked in spunk.  
Two fingers make the sign of the cross as a single tear falls from the elder’s blinking eyes.  
“Heavenly Father forgive me…”  
  
The man’s name uttered with soft voice.  
_Stiles._ The young Pole with honey eyes and chocolate hair that haunts Chris’ waking and sleeping hours.  
-

Holy Trinity isn’t an enormous place of worship. It’s not like the other basilicas of the same name found in cities like Chicago or New York. Given Beacon Hill’s size, and the dwindling number of the faithful, the need for a gigantic space would have been superfluous.   
  
It’s rather simple, as Catholic churches go. None of the pomp and circumstance one would expect from a church, say, in Italy.   
Still classic despite its modern architecture, the new refurbishing suited the times. It’s original marble in place, whatever wasn’t integral to the structure of the building was redone in simple metal and wood.   
  
Father Argent is the furthest thing from ostentatious and the way he keeps his parish reflects that. When he took over from his predecessor, he removed all the gold and kitsch. What is left now resembles a more Lutheran church than anything else. Essential.   
  
One large, wooden cross hangs above the altar. Simple statues adorn the columns. Perhaps as Jesus had intended long ago.   
Did he not ask his Apostles to leave behind their earthly burdens?  
  
Stiles isn’t thinking about the Apostles though. He fingers one of the rosewood beads, insisting into the roundness until the dent in his fleshy pad doesn’t become a part of his fingerprint.   
The hand that writes trembles.   
The pen is stiff between his fingers, slippery from sweat.   
His cock is stiff between his legs, moist from desire.   
  
Christopher.   
_Father Argent._    
That moaning he hears every night resounds in his brain like silverware falling to tile.  
Loud. Distracting. Broken.  
_Oh God._  
  
Stiles sits in one pew, wide back hunched over. He scribbles a song list for Sunday’s Mass but visions of the gorgeous Pastor plague him.   
_Jesus help me, those eyes. Whatever they fucking are. Is he looking at me with the sky or with moss? Changing with the light like some precious stone.  
_  
It’s not just the season’s rising temperatures. Stiles tugs at his collar, as if the mere thought of the handsome, older priest is sin enough to make his skin burn.   
The smaller chapel to the left of the nave is the place Stiles prefers to meditate. (And by meditate he means trying not to think naughty thoughts about the pastor).    
The Chapel of the Sacred Heart. It’s private and normally locked if the church is shut. Stiles has a key, however, and takes advantage when he needs focus. Or to be near his mother.   
  
This is where his mom often prayed. She was a devotee. Claudia would sit little Stiles down next to her and cradle his tiny hand, whispering to him in Polish.   
“Zobacz, Mieczysław, to jest obraz Najświętszego Serca Pana Jezusa.”   _Look, Mieczysław, this is the painting of Jesus’ Sacred Heart.  
_ Stiles would nod his little brunette head and look up lovingly at his mother, long lashes fluttering.  
“Tak, mama. Widze.”   
_Yes, mama. I see._  
His Polish is rusty but good. His memories of his mother impeccable.   
  
Stiles’ gaze studies the artwork.   
Christ offering his thorn-pierced heart to mankind in His ultimate sacrifice.   
Stiles offering his broken heart to Father Chris against better judgment.  
  
“I can’t do this,” he mutters to himself. “Shit.” The guilt he’s feeling. How Catholic. What a superb example he is of a true believer. (Except he’s really not).  
What he feels is undefined, and it’s more of a “conflict of interest” in its nature. He wants to fuck his boss. It just happens his boss is a man. And a priest.  
Stiles made his peace with being gay a long time ago.  
  
Lust burns a peach glow into his cheeks and a voice inside him murmurs a truth.  _You love him._  
  
From a distance, footsteps. Light and quick. Float like a butterfly.  
It’s him. Father Chris.   
The brunette draws in a raspy breath, pushing his erection down with his elbow.   
  
“Stiles?” the man turns the corner, forgetting himself. He needs to put distance between them. The unclean ideas that the Pastor has been having… the countless nights spent soiling his sheets with his release, the boy’s name a muffled cry on his parched lips.   
There aren’t enough Hail Marys for his penance.   
  
**Unclean.** He winces at the memory. The time when he was 16 and he was caught giving a blow job to Pascal Charles Baudelaire (yes of THOSE Baudelaires).  
Sweet Pascal, his classmate and lover at the Jesuit school. His mother had thought it “best” for him to move halfway around the world so as not to risk shaming his surname.  
Without having to worry about her son, she proceeded with controlling her daughter’s life. Poor Kate.   
  
Chris chuckles. Her solution to making him less gay was to board him with 800 other horny boys at the prestigious Lycée Louis-le-Grand in Paris. That’s where he found his first love.  
Pascal, a dandy like his namesake great-great uncle, was of light complexion and chestnut hair. Eyes the color of honeycombs.  
Pascal would recite him poetry and Chris would fuck him into tears. Sometimes at the same time.  
  
When discovered, he and Pascal were made to walk down the main hall, hands beating their breasts, chanting “UNCLEAN.” Putting them in two different dormitories only made the sex hotter.  
These shows of hypocrisy were for the benefit of his mentors, who needed to placate their own guilt.  
It was well known what happened behind the locked, heavy doors of some professors’ offices.  
  
Self-condemnation and shame, though, are easy companions to carry around. Even after a lifetime of struggle.  
To whom could he ever admit this weakness? Who could grant him forgiveness?!  
Its burden is a lead vest on his chest. Some days Chris can barely breathe around the brunette.  
  
Peeking into the chapel, he spots him.   
“I thought I’d find you here, Father Stilinski. Would you mind coming to the sacristy a moment?”  
  
Stiles jerks to attention and the pen drops from his hand. The soft “ta-tum” echoes through the empty church. Chris observes the slight curl of Stiles’ rosy lips. There is a flush to his normally creamy complexion.  
“Wha…what Father?” Stutter. He does that when he’s nervous.   
“Yes,” Stiles stammers. “Father. Coming. I was just working on…”  _a list of all the things I’d love to do to you.  
  
_ “Thank you, Stiles. I imagine that is the song list for Mass?” Dammit, he did it again. Get yourself together, Chris.   
The boy nods. Strategically he positions the notebook in front of his groin. Just in case…the summer cossack is pretty flimsy. And his bulge is pretty prominent.  
“Yes, Father.”  
“Excellent. Come Stiles.”   
  
Oh fuck. Father Stiles’ dick twitches. The pre-cum seeps into his cotton boxers. How long until choir rehearsal? Does he have time to…???  
“Stiles. I said come.”  
Father Chris’ deep, rumbling voice telling him to come. FUCK. He’s lucky he didn’t just now on command.   
  
It’s a short walk to the sacristy from the chapel, but Stiles navigates it while praying for self-control.   
“Boże, pomóż mi,” he whispers.   _God help me.  
_ He isn’t alone. Chris’ head spins. What he’s about to do might cost him everything.  
_  
_ If Stiles wasn’t perspiring under his Roman collar, he is now. The priest’s tunic hugs every muscle of Father Chris’ torso. The Pastor practices boxing (one’s body is one’s temple after all) and boy does it show.   
Standard cossacks are made to be loose but the one Chris dons seems custom fit.  
Stiles wishes he had such a good physique. If he thinks the man is nearly 20 years his elder… perhaps it’s better he doesn’t think about that.  
“Bless me, Daddy…I’ve been a lustful boy…”  
  
When they reach the back of the building, safely within the confines of the room behind the altar, Chris closes the door.  
Stiles swallows hard. The gesture is innocent, so why is Stiles’ cock harder than before?  
  
Pastor Argent indicates two red velvet chairs. The last remnants of the previous administration’s penchant for the “extravagant.”  
“Please, Father, have a seat.”  
Stiles does as told, glancing about the room. The labeled cabinets give the place a somber feel. Everything kept under lock and key including feelings.  
  
“What can I do to you, Father? I mean…” **FUCK!!**    
“I mean _for_ you.”  
An eyebrow raised. A hand runs through light brown hair speckled with gray. Did Stiles say _to you?_  
**SHIT!** Now there are two thundering hearts in the room.  
  
Stiles wonders if his Pastor’s shortly cropped beard would be soft against skin when he…  
  
“Please hear my confession, Father.”  
Not uncommon. Normal. Stiles exhales in relief.  
  
“Let me get the sash…” the brunette makes to sit up when Chris’ voice stays him.  
“No need. Please. This is more a chat among…”  
  
_Among whom? Lovers?  
  
_ When Stiles is once again seated, Chris begins.  
“Bless me Father for I have sinned…It has been ….since my last confession _and these are my sins_.”  
The words carry their weight.  
  
A bead of sweat trickles down the side of the elder man’s face. He studies his hands, turning them over.  
Stiles waits.  
“Yes, Father? Go on.”  
“I’ve had impure thoughts. Dreams. Desires.”  
  
_Oh my God._ Stiles’ mouth suddenly goes desert dry. The moaning. All that fucking moaning.  
His voice quakes.  
“This is normal, Father. We are, after all, flawed creatures. The important thing is…”  
Advice he should be giving himself is cut off before he can vocalize it.  
  
“I’ve had impure thoughts about you, Stiles. I desire you and each day the temptation grows and now it’s unbearable. If not due to my dreams, I perform self-love thinking about you.”  
  
The hard-on Stiles was struggling with is now raging. The brunette’s palm closes over one of Chris’.  
“I can’t absolve you from this, Christopher.”  
He’s never called him this before. Not to his face anyway.  
  
The blood that has rushed to Chris’ cock makes him feel light-headed.  
“Why not?” It’s barely audible.  
  
Sea eyes implore honey eyes.  
“I can’t absolve you of a sin that darkens my own heart.”  
  
-

Black on black.  
Whispers of fabric.  
Father Argent tries to remove his tunic and Stiles bunches it on his stomach, growling “Leave it!”  
Their underwear is tossed and that will be the only thing they remove.  
  
Their first kiss is rough. Bleeding need.  
Teeth clash, tongues obscenely offered for the sole purpose of being sucked. When their lips do graze, it’s nipping and tugging on the pink flesh.  
  
The longer they kiss, the more something takes over the brunette.   
Stiles curls his long fingers into Christopher’s hair.  
“I always thought I wanted you to be my Daddy. But I understand you’re looking for punishment today. You want to fuck away your guilt. Am I right?”  
The Pastor nods vehemently.  
Stiles grasps his neck lightly. “Your words, Father. Use your words.”  
  
Dom Stiles is sexy as fuck and Chris whimpers. “Please, Father Stiles. Please punish me for my sin.”  
He loosens his grip, aiding the man to crotch level.   
  
“On your knees, Father, it’s time for your penance.”  
It’s a murmur left floating between them as the pastor prays.  
“Hail Mary, full of grace…”  
  
Only four hands glide but they seem like ten. Chris’ powerful arms stay the boy’s thighs.  
Yes is the answer to Stiles’ question. Christopher’s beard IS soft against the skin of his belly.  
  
The Pastor wears Stiles’ cossack like a veil. He’s bent, worshipping the brunette’s cock.  
**UNCLEAN.**  
  
Stiles guides his head from over his dress, the man trapped under it like an umbrella.  
He mewls “Oh fuck, Chris, faster…”  
  
The rosary looped into his belt swings against his hip with every dip of Chris’ mouth. The moist ridge of Chris’ muscle runs along the thick member until his throat closes.  
**UNCLEAN.**  
  
“Boże, pomóż mi,” he whispers.  _God help me._    
Stiles pants and bucks. Shit he’s close.  
  
The young priest doesn’t trust himself. He pulls him off before it’s too late.  
Father Argent emerges with a gasp like from a deep sea dive, lips ruddy and beard moist with saliva and pre-cum. Everything in his visage spells wrecked.  
  
“I want you so fucking bad, Stiles. I want you to fuck me.” Stormy eyes plead.  
How can Stiles resist?  
  
He lunges.  Tastes himself on him. His smooth palms cup the Pastor’s cheeks until their faces don’t scrunch and their breathing hitches.  
  
Stiles shoves him against the wall, finger hooked into his white collar.  
“Do as I say, Father, and I’ll absolve you of your sins.”  
  
Somewhere at the back of Chris' gullet is a deep groan.   
  
Chris is not unlike his Bible, spine pressed into the wine cabinet, skirting the edge of carnal deliverance.  
  
“Stiles…Stiles…fuck me…”  
  
Thumbing the slit, he spreads the abundant pre-cum over the head, pulling down the foreskin.  
Chris hisses. He wants… he needs…  
“Beautiful cock,” Stiles kisses into his neck. “I figured you were uncut.”  
  
“Stiles, please…” I implore you.  
  
“Don’t move. Stay right there. ”  
Chris’ chest heaves, the tightness in his groin unbearable. The tip of his cock is purple from arousal.   
  
To the left of the Pastor is the ointment cabinet. Stiles removes the cork from the holy oil and lathers his hand in it. He grins.  
“Bend over, Father Argent. All fours, on the ground.”  
  
Face to the floor, ass in the air. Stiles drapes the tunic over the sides of his slim waist, marveling at the perfection that is Chris’ ass. Absolutely perfect, round mounds just covered in enough fine hairs for it to be sexy.  
“Relax, Chris. I’ll take care of you. I'll lead you on the road to perdition.”  
  
The oil smells of Frankincense. It fills their nostrils with its pungent spice. Stiles circles the ribbed opening with one finger. Testing the muscle.  
It slides in with ease.  
“Oh god…” Chris moans. “More…please”  He inches backwards, seeking.   
  
“You’ve been exploring other things, haven’t you, Father? How many fingers can you get inside yourself?”  
  
A second. Stiles scissors, brushing against the man’s gland. His own penis drips against his belly.  
“More?”  
The third is already poised. Chris hums, swaying. “Please. Father…please.”  
  
Stiles looks at the clock on the wall. He’s got 14 minutes until the singers start knocking on the front doors. He could have Deacon Derek Hale run it but it’s too late to call him.   
Hale. That's a story for another day. Stiles mustn't get distracted.   
  
He’ll have to use his secret weapon.  
  
The oil, slick and balmy against his skin, feels better than lube ever has. This just might ease the process…  
Four fingers plunge inside the Pastor.  
“Oh FUCK!” he jumps.  
  
Father Stiles spreads them, Chris’ asshole gaping, it’s dark secret exposed to the naked eye. He blows on it, the cool air tingly, making Father Argent purr.  
  
“I’m going to fist you, Chris. Because you’ve sinned so gravely. You’ve coveted a man, you’ve masturbated and sodomized yourself. Serious punishments for such terrible acts against God and your body.”  
  
Lines appear across Chris’ forehead. Tears well in his cerulean eyes.  
“Please…do it.”  
  
“Say it. Keep reciting it until I make you cum.”    
  
Stiles folds in his thumb, the rest of his hand having already breached the hole. The unguent helps ease the drag.  
“I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, “  
  
The brunette slips in, past the wrist but enough for it to not damage. There's no need to go too deep.   
   
“Oh God..” Chris screams… “that I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words,” the words are rushed. Said through gritted teeth.  
  
The young priest moves inside him, massaging his gland, feeling the warmth of his insides as his thrusts keep time for the hand now reaching around to pump his aching cock.  
  
“Good, Christopher. God is pleased. Keep going.”  
  
“Oh Jesus… in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do; and I ask blessed Mary,”  
Stiles revels in this. The control. He never thought he needed it but he loves it. He gets off on making Chris cower for him.  
  
“OH GOD GOD” And Chris does cum. He literally disintegrates just as Stiles pulls out, his knuckles twisting over the cinch of the rim.  
The jizz spills from him in four, long spurts as his ass bucks.   
   
Father Stilinski is about to explode.  
  
Chris tumbles over, his pucker still pulsing, the aftershock of his orgasm still shaking him.  
  
“Ever virgin, all the angels and saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.”  
  
Chris crawls over, hands walking the floorboards. He is begging for it.  
“Please, Father. Let me help.”  
  
He lifts the material from where Stiles is tented. The reddened crown is dewy and the vein running along the priest’s impressive member visibly throbs.  
  
Stiles chants something in Polish, eyes half-lidded. Chris’ mouth hollows and a shaky fist finishes what Stiles started in his mind the night before.  
  
The young Father sits, legs spread and head thrown back, caressing the silky tresses of the holy man bobbing on his shaft.  
As his release arrives, he grants Chris forgiveness.   
The priest rolls his balls in his hands and sucks through the twitch.   
  
The Pastor drinks his cum like Communion wine. The young priest stammers out a pardon, pressing a cross into Father Argent’s forehead.    
“OH JESUS... JESUS!! I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”  
  
Those goddamn eyes beam at him, Chris’ pearly smile making the boy melt. Stiles bites into his lower lip.   
  
“For His mercy endures forever,” answer cum-covered lips. The Pastor giggles, kissing Stiles’ milky inner thigh.  
  
"Amen?"  
"Amen."  
"Still feel bad about being gay, Father Argent?"  
Hard to feel bad when you're coated in fresh cum. "I think it might require a few more prayer sessions."  
  
Stiles' gaze steals to the clock. FUCK.   
"Shit, Chris...I’m so late to choir. They’re probably lined up outside.”  
The Pastor shrugs. “They’ll wait. Patience is a virtue.”  
“So they say.”  
  
Stiles beckons him for a kiss. "We still have a lot to talk about."   
"I know. It can wait. Duty calls, and I know where to find you. We'll talk tonight."  
  
Chris works his way up the brunette’s neck before nibbling on his lobe.  
"Talk, huh?" Father Stiles guffaws.   
"Of course, Stiles. Talk."   
An afterthought. “You know I usually top, right?” His voice is even huskier after orgasm.  
  
Stiles grins, scratching his lover's nape. “Well, Father, get used to switching, because I'm not just a power bottom for the Lord.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> So the "UNCLEAN" experience actually happened at my same-sex Catholic school, and this was in the 90s people. Reflect.  
> The prayers are the Act of Contrition, the Confession prayer, phrases from the Confession rite.  
> At any rate I'm going to hell all the same, if one believes in the place, since I'm a big ol queer so why not just write my priest fantasies out?!  
> As always, check out my Sterek fics if you haven't, and please comment and kudo since we live for this shit.  
> xxoo


End file.
